


Compass

by Preble



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fluff, I appreciate wanting to leave supports to the imagination, Oneshot, Pining, Post-Time Skip, but pls Intellegent Systems, plot compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 02:49:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21219338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Preble/pseuds/Preble
Summary: In which Claude throws caution, and his partner, to the wind.





	Compass

**Author's Note:**

> "Morvarid" is Farsi for pearl

At the Eastern Leicester border the Oghma mountain range stretched from Garreg Mach to the Sea of Sreng. Its peaks silently patrolled the border between houses Daphnel and Galatea all the way to the coast, where the northern coastline edged close enough that both the forested mountain bases and the Sea of Sreng’s rocky beaches could be seen from the back of a great, white wyvern. Warm, salted sea air met the coast and propelled itself up toward the highlands of the range, keeping steed and riders aloft with little more than an occasional wingbeat.

Astride his beloved wyvern, Claude inhaled deeply, welcoming the distinct mix of woodland and ocean air. The familiar smell imparted a heady mix of sentimentality and heartache, welcoming him back to his second home, a place he’d protect and serve to his dying breath, a place that taught him hate and family, racism and politics. It felt like ages since he’d been there when in fact he’d only departed six moons ago on the eve of the millennium festival.

It was hard to believe that so much had changed since then. _He’d_ changed so much since then, when he’d left Deirdru for Garreg Mach hellbent on fulfilling one final gambit. If he were to be truthful with himself, he’d admit that there wasn’t a contingency plan had Byleth not washed up the river on the eve of the millennium festival. Had she truly been dead, as presumed by teams of search parties, Seteth, and all of his colleagues. Had the petulant corner of his brain, railing against evidence for five years, been proven wrong after insisting _no, she’s never failed me before, and she won’t fail me now_. _She _can’t_ be gone._

She’d been like a lodestar for him, guiding him due north as he navigated life at the monastery, the onset of the war, ever keeping his gaze forward after she’d gone missing all those years ago.

And now, here she was, sitting before him in the saddle, the coastal sea air tugging her green hair from the braid Marianne had so thoughtfully fashioned for air travel. Nearing the end of their two-day flight to Derdriu, her initial apprehension of wyvern riding had long abated and she now sat comfortably, absorbed in the shifting palate of the eastern sky as the sun approached the western horizon.

In a couple of hours they would arrive to begin campaigning among the Leicester roundtable members. Ever the spearhead of his plans, Byleth was conscripted to represent the Seiros religion and sway the piety-minded representatives of the Alliance. Claude had no reservations or misgivings about her capacity to fulfill the role; her cool head in battle would no doubt serve her well in the arena of squabbling dukes, margraves and counts. No, it was his flagrant abuse of her power and trust that weighed him more heavily as they drew nearer the capital.

The guilt sank a stone into his stomach, buoyed by a flurry of excitement that had been churning in his throat since they took off. His purely political campaign bestowed upon him a rare opportunity to spend uninterrupted time alone with Byleth, all the more precious in wartime when both were at the beck and call of the army. After five years of searching and hoping he was unwilling to let any moment go to waste, especially as they made course to her first visit of his homeland.

“How’re you faring up there? Ready to admit that flying is the only real way to travel?” He asked over the rushing wind.

“I still maintain that ground travel is safer,” she argued good humoredly. “But even I have to admit that it’s spectacular up here. It seems that your friend is starting to trust me, too,” she added, leaning forward to run a gentle hand over the wyvern’s neck.

“Morvarid can be a disagreeable old girl, I’ll give you that. But listen, she likes you well enough.” He soothed, gesturing to his steed who rumbled happily, grateful for neck pats.

They lapsed into companionable silence, listening to the ocean breeze and Morvarid’s guttural purr. After a moment Byleth straightened, surveying the landscape beneath them.

“It’s… freeing.” She decided. “The war feels so far away from up here.”

Claude chuckled, leaning back in the saddle. “I’ve looked long and hard, but after a lifetime of experimenting I’ve yet to find a better way of running away from problems. External problems, anyway,” he amended ruefully. “It feels like even gravity can’t reach you up here.”

“Until you come crashing down.” Byleth corrected darkly.

“Aaaaw, lighten up, Teach! You know I’m a _professional_ flier. And here I thought you were starting to get used to flying,” he whined.

She tossed an impassive look over her shoulder. “I’m perfectly comfortable up here.”

“_There’s_ the fearless leader we know and love,” he praised. “Would you say that you’re getting too comfortable?”

She didn’t bother turning around this time. “What are you talking about?”

He hummed thoughtfully. “After a while you get used to the excitement of flying, even this can get mundane. Gotta spice things up every once and awhile, you know?” Testing the waters, Claude leaned forward to murmur a proposal into Byleth’s right ear.

“Feeling up for your first dive?”

She didn’t answer immediately, instead electing to grab the horn of the saddle and take a deep breath through her nose. Claude would have given anything to see her face then, but would have to speculate her expression as she answered him with one stiff, affirmative nod.

He grinned wickedly, grappling with the urge to push his luck. If Hilda or Lorenz were in the saddle it’d be a different matter entirely, but Byleth…

Well, he could hardly count himself her friend if he didn’t encourage a little personal growth here and there.

“We’ll start slow. A little dive.”

Claude grasped the reins in his hands and tugged gently downward, pointing Morvarid’s snout to the earth. After a final flap she angled downwards into a shallow, quick descent. His eyes watered as they gained speed, and the wind roaring in his ears nearly deafened him to a noise he’d never heard before. Some kind of sea bird?

Another two stories of drop added to their speed, fast enough that his stomach began to feel weightless in his torso. Without warning a hand flew from the horn of the saddle to grip Claude’s leg and, over the rush of wind through his ears, he heard that sound again, louder. With each second of dropping the hand on his thigh gripped more tightly and the sound rose in pitch and volume.

Screaming.

He’d never heard Byleth scream before.

Alarmed, Claude yanked the reigns upward, commanding Morvarid to rise. “Bekarkh!”

Even after the wyvern halted their drop and slowly resumed a steady climb back into the stratosphere, Byleth maintained a white-knuckled grip on the horn with her left hand and on Claude with the right. Claude stewed behind her, grappling with the thrill of coaxing new emotions and sounds from the stoic professor and the guilt of terrorizing his trusted partner.

“Sorry, friend,” he atoned, gingerly laying a hand over hers as it dug into his leg. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I guess I overdid it.”

She shook her head, turning in the saddle to face him over her shoulder. Instead of disappointment or fear, Claude’s heart stuttered at the breathless wonder on Byleth’s face, cheeks pink and eyes wide and watering from the wind. Her lips were slightly parted as she wrestled her breathing under control, chest heaving with shallow breaths.

“I… want to do it again.” Byleth assured, winded.

Claude cocked his head, a disbelieving smile crooking his mouth. “I’m not so sure, I’ve never heard you _scream_ before. It’s hard to believe that the Ashen Demon is scared of flying.”

She shook her head. “It’s the falling that frightens me, flying is another thing entirely.”

“But you want to do it again anyway?”

“Without a doubt. Oh, sorry…” mumbled, releasing Claude’s leg and returning to the horn. “I didn’t mean to throttle your leg, I was slipping from the saddle.”

Claude frowned. “I can’t arrive to Deirdru empty handed, Seteth and Hilda would skin me alive. Can you hook your feet into the stirrups?”

She arched her feet down, peering over Morvarid’s flank to find more purchase. Her feet kicked at empty air. “I can’t quite reach. You’ve gotten too tall.” she assessed a little sadly.

“Hmm…”

He sighed inwardly, feeling Hilda’s knowing stares and eyebrow waggles all the way from Garreg Mach. His voice stayed mercifully light as he proposed safety measures.

“Scoot back a little,” he instructed. “And brace the horn with both hands.”

Decades of emotional conditioning allowed Claude to maintain his composure as she inched back in the saddle, slotting herself snugly against his hips. Once she’d braced herself against him Claude transferred the reins to his right hand and wrapped his left around her torso, ignoring the planes of muscle beneath his fingers and holding tightly.

“There,” he evaluated. “Feel secure?”

She nodded, eyes trained forward.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

He pulled sharply on the reins and dug his heels into the dragon’s side, shouting to Morvarid: “_Inqadda._”

One, two, three flaps to reorient herself and they were pointed straight downward. Tucking her wings to her body, they bulleted towards the greenery of the mountain base, nearing terminal velocity. All of the air in Byleth’s lungs sprang forth in a long shriek, unexpectedly higher and more feminine than her typical smooth mezzo. One of her hands left the horn to grasp at Claude’s arm wrapped around her belly and she flattened herself against his chest, leaning her head back into his sternum and clamping to the wyvern with all the strength her legs had to offer.

Claude’s pulse raced with adrenaline and nearness, holding tightly to Byleth for safety and indulgence. After a few seconds of freefall he yanked the reins upward.

“Bekarkh!”

All at once Morvarid unfurled her wings and arced out of the freefall, momentum shooting them seamlessly into an ascent. Claude felt Byleth’s belly tense as her scream dovetailed into a peal of laughter, whether from thrill or relief or joy he couldn’t tell. He couldn’t help but laugh along with her.

All too soon they regained cruising altitude. Spent from her aerobatic display, Morvarid stretched and lazily rode the air currents, white scales gleaming in the orange of the setting sun. A ghost of laughter remained on Byleth’s face even as regained control of her breathing. Aching fondness settled into Claude’s chest and cheeks.

“Nicely done, Teach.” He commended. “Freefalls like that aren’t for the faint of heart.”

“Nice flying,” she riposted. “I think two is all I can handle for the day, my pulse can’t take much more.”

“Lucky for you, we’re almost there. I don’t want to terrorize the townspeople by divebombing the outskirts of town, my mother would have my head for it.”

Her brows pulled together slightly, worry wiping the smile from her face. “Hard to believe we’ll be at roundtable delegations so soon. I hope it goes well.”

“They’ll be fine, everybody’s going to love you.” Claude hated how quickly the world brought her joy crashing down. For just a few more hours, he wanted her to forget the war, forget the immense pressures laid upon her shoulders by himself, Rhea, the church, her students, herself. “We’re running ahead of schedule, and I specifically left tonight open so that we’d have some time to settle before attending meetings tomorrow. How about a little detour? The bay is really something just after sunset, I bet if we ask Morva nicely she’ll let us circle the fjord before heading to the castle.”

She deliberated for a few moments, her thumb absentmindedly tracing across Claude’s arm. With a pang he realized that he’d made no movements to release her once they’d come out of the dive, but was spared from panic when she settled comfortably against his chest.

“I’m not ready to come back to earth yet. Just a little longer.”

Claude prayed that Byleth couldn’t feel his heart hammering against his ribcage and pitched convention and sensibility to the wind, removing his arm from her waist so that he could lace his fingers through hers. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and he released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “You got it, my friend.”

A pull of the reins and the three turned north, towards the open ocean. With the horizon stretching endlessly before him and the world rapidly falling away behind, it was easy for his overreaching heart to find perspective. If only for a few stolen hours, Claude was grateful to leave the war behind him and narrow his vision to the impossible, miraculous woman gathered against his chest.

The world, and the future, would wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Since much of Claude's character is largely based on historical Persian figures, I used a mix of Farsi and Arabic as a stand-in for Almyran (with huge apologies to any readers who may be native speakers! This is a very crude, google-driven approximation).
> 
> I love this ship, you guys. I love everything about them but their celebrity couple title - Bylaude? Claudeleth? Doesn't roll off the tongue. 
> 
> This is an ooc oneshot, but let me know what you think! I'm working on another 5-or-6 chapter project that I've promised myself I wouldn't upload until it's complete, and any suggestions would be most appreciated so I can tweak the next one appropriately. Thanks for reading!


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